


Between a Rock and a Thousand-Foot Drop

by pearlsapphiresnapdragon



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, flarrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2819045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlsapphiresnapdragon/pseuds/pearlsapphiresnapdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barry has a huge, neon crush on Oliver Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Barry meets Oliver Queen, he babbles about traffic and apps and obstinate cab drivers. And, really, that’s a relief because it means he’s not babbling about how Oliver’s attractiveness, his very existence, is an utterly unfair and completely unwarranted assault on his peace of mind. How can one man be so hot and why does Barry have to be so susceptible to the particular type of hotness he personifies?

            Then Oliver speaks and Barry’s lungs forget what he pays them for because _oh god he’s a smartass_. Hot and sharp and _look at that adorable quirky thing he does with his eyebrows_.

            This man will be his doom.

 .

From then on Barry tries very hard to keep the giant, flashing ‘Property of Oliver Queen; if found, please return’ sign over his head from coming to anyone else’s attention. He very deliberately doesn’t stare at the billionaire’s sublime posterior, or at his equally sublime and impressively nuanced arsenal of grouchy faces, and he _definitely_ doesn’t say things like ‘you’re the pinnacle of human evolution, please do dirty, nasty things to me until I forget my own name.’ When his traitorous brain conjures embarrassingly elaborate visions of Oliver working on a Harley, wearing blue jeans that emphasize some of his greatest assets, a white t-shirt he should have known was a size too small at the store, and smatters of engine grease up to his elbows, he…

            …actually, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to think of instead because that image is just uncalled-for, brain, and – uh oh, Felicity’s talking to him and it turns out his not-staring at Oliver Queen is just as conspicuous as the staring would be.

            Oliver turns a painful-looking not-smile on him and Barry’s insides do a triumphant little jig. Take that, good judgment.

 .

Barry abandons all pretense when Oliver confronts him about his true identity. Oliver’s angry, rightly so, and Barry’s ashamed, even though his lies were justified. He tells the truth, lays it all out for Oliver to judge and prays without hope that he’ll forgive the deception.

            Oliver is not a man who swallows dishonesty easily. Barry can see it in the flat, hard glass of his eyes. All he can do is wait and see if Oliver is a man who understands the necessity of certain kinds of lies.

 .

Oliver calls him later that day to invite him to a party at the Queen mansion. No mention of The Deception passes over the phone and Barry takes that to mean that he is.

            A man who forgives.

            Holy shit, what did he do in a previous life to deserve this kind of punishment? Tantalus had it easy.

            “So you’ll be there?”

            Barry nearly bites the tip of his tongue off to stop a flirty _only if I get to dance with you_ from crashing its way through his lips and snapping the proverbial olive branch Oliver is offering. Instead, he says, “I’d love to,” and then his idiot heart adds, “I can’t wait to see you,” so his equally idiotic brain scrambles for damage control and the best it can come up with is, “And Felicity too! Not just you…”

            At least this isn’t a video call. Oliver can’t watch him turn beet red, scrunch up his eyes, and slap his free hand to his forehead.

            It could be Barry’s imagination or it could be Oliver’s patience dwindling, but Barry thinks he hears a faint sound like a grumpy hum from the other end of the line. When Oliver speaks again, his voice comes from the opposite shore of a new-sprung gulf. Probably because mentioning Felicity had reminded him of the lies.

            “Felicity will be glad. I’ll see you tonight.”

            “See you…” and then, after the ‘call ended’ beep, “Please don’t hate me for lying.”

 .

“You know he’s in mad, passionate puppy love with you, right?” Felicity says, light as a balloon with a brick tied to its groundward end.

            Oliver smiles and Felicity’s heart sinks a little because she’d been fishing for a denial or at least some surprised demurring.

            “He’ll get over it.”

            Barry chooses that exact moment to appear in the doorway (ten minutes later than any other guest) in a suit that looks like its maker stitched it together in a fever of divine prescience, specifically to showcase the long, slim lines of Barry Allen’s body. Oliver’s smile goes all gooey-melty with a hint of that quietly devastating, _it’s better not to be with someone I could really care about_ kind of sad.

            Oh yeah, he’ll get over _that_ easy.

 .

Barry winds up dancing with Felicity for a while and a small, dark corner of his mind revels in the irony of Oliver trying to set the two of them up when they’re both floundering around in a sea of broody golden boy feels. The rest of him is mortified for a multitude of reasons, chiefly the aforementioned floundering, though his two left feet take precedence whenever Felicity very obviously suppresses a wince.

            At least they’re not alone in this.

 .

It only takes a few moments to assess his heart’s danger levels after the chief’s call.

            He won’t be saying goodbye to Oliver.

            Barry knows himself, knows when he’s crushing and when he’s falling and, to put it one way…if Barry were standing on the roof of a thousand foot high skyscraper with a conveniently placed boulder labeled ‘for use on Oliver Queen’ in the middle, he’d be a lot closer to the ledge than to the boulder. Funny how that can happen overnight when you’re an intuitive dork and the object of your attraction sees the deepest, darkest, most desperate version of you and _understands_.

 .

He’s thinking about Oliver (of course he is), about how the depths of his eyes go down for centuries, about the drawn-bow tautness in his shoulders, about how the Oliver in his memory will always stand solid and unmovable in a center of his own making while waves crash and the wind howls and wolves snap and snarl all around, hungry for the light he carries inside.

            He’s very pointedly _not_ thinking about the subtle, surprised quirk Oliver’s lips would make after Barry laced their hands together for the first time or the way he might sigh dramatically at one of Barry’s nerdy physics puns. Or what their first movie night together might lead to.

            He’s thinking about Oliver (absolutely  _not_  about the tragedy of seeing his face everyday on his morning dash past the newsstand down the street from CCPD) when a sharp, sudden pain flares in his neck.

 .

Still caught in the grip of whatever sedative put him under and the muted blare of fight-or-flight sirens, he wakes to harsh lighting. There’s also some glass cases housing a bow and green-fletched arrows. And _what the hell, is that the Vigi –_

            Oliver Queen’s face attached to the Vigilante’s body. Oliver Queen lying motionless on a flat metal table like the ones at the Central City morgue.

            Felicity blocks his view. “Please save my friend,” she says, restrained terror in every syllable.

            The terror streaking through Barry’s veins is nothing like restrained.


	2. Chapter 2

_I usually only work on dead people._

            An echoing, paralyzing thought that Oliver can’t afford.

            Felicity’s sharp reproof snaps Barry into action. He won’t be the reason she loses her friend.

            There are only four things this could be. No, three…two.

            One.

            “You can save him, right?”

            This is an old place. Underground. They have to have rats.

.

Saving Oliver Queen’s life will be one of those flashbulb moments that mars the quiet sunlight of an afternoon coffee break with noise and horror for years to come. He’ll remember the impossibly vital green of the suit, the arrows, and the spike of raw, thundering panic when incomprehension gave way to recognition. He’ll remember Felicity saying his name and how brave she was, even in the face of Diggle’s voice of reason.

            He’ll remember the _sink_ of the needle into Oliver’s neck. Knowing he was right, but terrified that this one, crucial time, science would fail him.

            And then the resistance as he carefully (not tenderly, not at all) pulls the bandage off of Oliver’s neck. Oliver’s grip on his throat and the relief that accompanied it.

.

Even though he deserves it, after the lying, that resounding _I don’t_ hurts like a kick to the gut. Arms crossing defensively, Barry takes a deep breath to stave off the irrational wave of emotion threatening to pour out of him. Oliver isn’t anything to him, wasn’t ever going to be anything to him. The mythical romance between god-like Oliver Queen and mere mortal Barry Allen that he’s been telling himself not to daydream about won’t ever exist. 

            Maybe he needed this. Wake-up call.

            Yeah. He was getting too close to the ledge. (If by too close you mean dangling off of it one-handed.)

            Yeah.

            Time to take a step back.

            Barry refocuses on the ‘conversation’ between Felicity and Oliver.

            He won’t be the reason she loses him.

            “I'm not going to tell anyone, and you don't have to thank me, but you _should_ thank her instead of being kind of a jerk.” And then those glass shard eyes are inches from his and the lump is back in his throat as he squeezes out an unsteady, “Mr. Queen.”

.

It’s easier to think about the Vigilante than it is to think about Oliver. The fact that they are one and the same is something Barry’s heart (and therefore his brain, because they’re not as separate as Barry likes to pretend) refuses to acknowledge. He can talk about the Vi – _the Arrow_.

            In fact his enthusiasm for the Arrow pre-dates his devotion to Oliver by quite a bit, so talking about the Arrow actually helps take his mind off of broken dreams he had no right to in the first place.

            When Oliver comes back, he’s all business and that suits Barry just fine. He can hide the residual sting of withheld trust (and the little twinge of misplaced jealousy when Felicity mentions island girls, plural, as in more than one) behind interest in Oliver’s nighttime occupation. The Arrow is a safe topic.

            Barry likes irony.

            He also likes Oliver’s grumpy face.

            Oh hell. So much for taking steps back.

.

Asking Felicity about Oliver starts out as a mix of concern/fellow feeling and a startled attempt to steer her attention away from the project he’s working on. It’s not that he’s trying to hide it from her, exactly. Just. This is for Oliver, from Barry. He wants to keep it that way, even though he does like Felicity very much and the part of his brain that’s not delusional knows that if anyone’s going to successfully lay siege to the fortress of issues Oliver’s built around his heart, it’s her.

            Not as accidentally as he would like, Barry comes very close to outright telling Felicity that he likes Oliver too. As it is, he’s pretty sure she got the message loud and clear. He’s more than a little ashamed about that. Felicity didn’t deserve it.

            Miraculously, they make it to the other side of the exchange as friends. Which shouldn’t surprise him. Felicity is grace incarnate after all.

.

In the end, Barry almost doesn’t say goodbye. It would be easier not to, partly because of certain vexatious _feelings_ and partly because getting Oliver alone is next to impossible, but he (masochist that he is) wants to give Oliver the mask in person. Fortunately, Diggle goes off to do something undoubtedly badass and Arrow-related and Felicity, having correctly interpreted his anxious-Barry fidgeting, decides she absolutely has to have a double espresso banana nut latte, hot, almond-milk-not-whole, from the often understaffed but perennially popular Monkey’s Uncle cafe a couple streets over.

            As soon as it registers that the two of them are alone, Oliver heads for the hills. Or, more precisely, the stairs.

            “Oliver, wait.”

            Oliver stops and looks at him, resignation in the shuttered panes of his face. Unfortunately Barry’s experiencing a network failure.

            That’s the first time he’s ever called Oliver by his name. He likes the way it hangs in the air on the keen edge of memory, liked the shape of it as it slid from the back of his mouth to the tip of his tongue, back and then forward again to catch on his bottom lip, upper teeth. Then out in a rush, taking his breath with it. He likes it more with Oliver here to hear it.

            “Do you need something, Barry?”

            _I need you to remember me_. “I, uh. I have something. For you,” he says and holds up a box. For one dreadful moment he expects him not to take it. But then he does, opens it, and stares at the mask.

            “Thank you.”

            Barry doesn’t know him well enough to name the change that comes over his face when he says it, but the way the hard edges of his voice soften is unmistakable.

            The muscles of his own face stretch and his cheeks burn. “It’s a composite material, primarily made up of a carbon fiber polymer, but I played around with a few more mundane synthetic fibers, like polyester, too. It should conform to your face pretty well….”

            Oliver does the thing Barry hadn’t dared to hope he would; he puts on the mask, and then he smiles. “How do I look?”

            _Like an outlaw, like a legend, like a dream I’ll go to sleep every night wishing for_. “Good. Really good. In a heroic but still intimidating as hell vigilante kind of way.”

            Oliver chuckles.

            There should be a law against Oliver Queen chuckles. They’re a schedule II controlled substance, _at best._

            “Thanks, Barry.”

            “How does it feel?”

            “Good. It’s light, doesn’t impair my vision at all. It’s good.”

            “Good. I’m glad.” Barry pauses to run a hand through his hair. Also to give Oliver room to say something more but, of course, he doesn’t. What else could he have to say? Don’t answer that, brain. “Well, I better get going. If I don’t leave soon I won’t make it in time to watch the particle accelerator turn on.”

            “Barry…”

            Barry freezes.

            “You saved my life. I’m lucky you were here, and I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I’ll be honored to wear this mask.”

            Suddenly, the raw, nerve-frying tidal wave of emotions that's been building since he met Oliver Queen is too strong. To his horror, Barry feels his eyes flood and his chest constrict.

            Without a word, Oliver folds him in a hug.

            Being hugged by Oliver doesn’t feel like he imagined it would. It isn’t tight and searing. It’s gentle and solid and steadying.

            It doesn’t last. Barry has to go, before he misses his train. Before this turns into a memory that he can’t let go. He steps out of the circle of Oliver's arms.

           "You can talk to me, Barry. If you need to," Oliver says, and his voice is like honey, golden and warm and sweet.

            Barry shakes his head. He'd rather be struck by lightning on the spot than admit that he's fallen so hard so fast for someone so out of reach.

            When he’s relatively sure his voice won’t wobble, he says, “Goodbye, Oliver.”

            “Goodbye, Barry.”

.

After Felicity tells him about the lightning, Oliver goes utterly still. He holds in the fury and outrage until she can get Dig to take her home. Then, when he’s alone, he releases it all in one blow, fist shattering the closest glass case. The bloom of scarlet across his knuckles is disturbingly satisfying.

            He wasn’t in love with Barry Allen.

            It’s not the things he didn’t let himself feel or the kisses he never stole or even regret over lost time that pound in his blood like the beat of a war drum. It’s the injustice of a life so full of promise interrupted. A light so bright snuffed out while garbage like whoever was behind the skull mask was allowed to keep spreading their filth.

            He wants to wreck a few more cases, maybe the whole room. Instead he wheels over a trash can and starts cleaning, picking up each fragment of glass, one at a time. By the time he gets to sweeping up the smallest pieces he’s as numb as he’s going to get without alcohol.

            Later that night, he pours himself a single shot of whiskey. He raises it, pictures Barry’s face, young and open and so relentlessly full of a hope Oliver could never harbor on his own.

            Oliver downs the shot. _Here’s to hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised: 4/26/2015


	3. Chapter 3

Barry Allen’s first thought when he wakes up is not, in fact, about Oliver Queen. It’s about the crazy people trying to get him to pee.

            Nine months.

            To Barry no time has passed at all. A few seconds ago he was in his lab with physics spazzing out all around him. Now they’re telling him he’s been in a coma for the better part of a year.

            Life-altering experiences aside, it isn’t long before he starts wondering what Oliver might be doing, what stories nine months might have written in his face, in the roll of his gait. Whether he and Felicity are married yet.

            But then he has bigger things to worry about, like sudden, lightning-granted superspeed and superpowered bank robbers.

            And a death he should have been able to prevent.

            He runs to Oliver as much for comfort as for guidance from the Arrow.

.

Only Barry Allen can make him believe like this. If any other coma patient had shown up on the precise rooftop Oliver had chosen to prowl that night, he’d be checking himself into a cushy mental health facility in the Bahamas.

            Nine months is a long time to hope, especially for Oliver.

            He hadn’t given up.

            What he’d done was seal away every memory, every not-feeling, every megawatt smile, in a box and cast it into the deepest part of his heart. Now, with Barry standing before him, full of life, full of hurt, and so, so real ( _this time_ ), the box cracks and the contents rush up out of the depths, stronger than they ever were before.

            He feels like he’s drowning again.

            His jaw aches from keeping it all inside.

            “So, uh, I’m awake.”

            Oliver nods. He still can’t open his mouth to speak.

            “I’m also really fast now.”

            Barry’s waiting. With an effort nothing short of herculean, Oliver makes a strangled noise that’s supposed to sound like interest. He clears his throat and yelps, “Fast?”

            “Yeah. Look, this is going to sound crazy….” He pauses and Oliver has to fight the ridiculous urge to laugh. “I ran here. From Central City. It only took me an hour.”

            Okay, maybe he really should look into mental health facilities in the Bahamas. Fortunately, Felicity’s voice squeaks into his ear, _“Oliver, is that **Barry**?”_

            At least he’s not crazy.

            Probably.

            After reassuring her that it was indeed Barry, Oliver cuts the communication line between him and the Foundry. He has a feeling this is going to get private.

.

Barry tells him everything, from his mother’s murder and the birth of his quest for the impossible, to the night of the lightning bolt, to the incident with Clyde Mardon. There are moments during the telling that Barry’s voice stretches thin, like dough pulled so long that the layers separate into strands and start to break.

            Oliver can’t pretend he's sure he wouldn’t cry right along with him if he did.

            How can he explain to Barry what a gift he is to humanity? How can he make him see the good that he can do, not just by saving lives, but by sharing his phenomenal capacity for hope with the world?

            He tries. Maybe even succeeds. That’s up to Barry.

.

“Wear a mask.”

            The world slips into low gear. Oliver’s right shoulder starts to twitch. Barry’s arm shoots out to stop him from going.

            _Please don’t go yet, I don’t want to be alone right now, I never asked for these powers, I never asked to be something inhuman, I never asked for this **burden**. Please stay with me until I’m okay again._

            “Oliver, wait.”

            Oliver stares at him, unnaturally still, for what feels like an eternity. With a sinking feeling, Barry realizes he’s talking in superspeed. Oliver can’t understand him, maybe can’t even hear him. It takes a huge, concentrated effort to get back to normal speed, and when he manages it, it feels profoundly wrong.

            Barry breaks down right there, and Oliver’s arms are instantly around him again.

.

The world is ending.

            That’s what it feels like to Oliver when Barry sobs into his shoulder like there’s a knife in his gut.

.

“I’m sorry,” Barry finally says, when the tears are mostly dry and he’s been quiet for a while. (The tears on his face, that is. The stain on Oliver’s suit is probably never going to come out. Barry’s pretty sorry about that. He likes the Arrow suit, in particular the way it’s shaped like Oliver, very much.)

            Oliver only shakes his head, looking up at the stars. He has one of Barry’s hands in his. That’s nice.

            That’s very nice.

            Out of nowhere, Oliver asks him, “Barry, what’s the brightest star up there?”

            Barry glances at him sidelong. “The brightest one we can see is Sirius, that one over by the moon – you see it? – but there are much bigger, hotter ones out there that we can’t see because they’re too far away. The biggest are called hypergiants. The hottest are class _O_ , under the Morgan-Keenan system. Why do you ask?”

            Oliver’s lips curve subtly. “Just curious.”

            Barry doesn’t bother to waste time wondering about this latest Oliver Queen inscrutability.

            It’s now or never. Or at least that’s what it feels like. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Barry withdraws his hand from Oliver’s, squares his shoulders and takes the plunge. “In case you haven’t noticed, I kind of maybe might have these giant, unruly, dinosaur-puppy feelings for you.”

            Dinosaur-puppy? What the heck is that even? If Barry’s superpowers extended to melting into a puddle at will, he would do it right then. In fact, that sounds like an avenue to explore, in preparation for future bouts of sudden onset _lunacy_.

            Oliver’s smile widens, against his own wishes. “You don’t say.”

            Barry ignores him and continues, before his nerves get the best of him and he has to run to the other side of the world, find a rock and get used to thinking of the space under it as home. “And I was kind of wondering if maybe you might have some similar feelings for me.”

            Oliver sighs. “Barry…I’m not good at caring for people.”

            Barry feels his face fall. He can’t help it.

            “That’s not – what I mean is, I don’t do relationships well. I end up hurting the people that I care about. I don’t want you to be one of the people I hurt.”

            Time to spin the Wheel of Emotions Precipitated by Oliver Queen. The marker lands on the line between Irritation and Anger, two new additions from the last time he played. They’re right smack in between Cautious Affection and Flaming Hot Lust, which used to be neighbors.

            “So, what you’re saying with your convoluted, Oliver Queen logic, is that you do like me but I can’t handle you?”

            “No, Barry, what I’m saying is, you have responsibilities in Central City and I have an obligation to Starling, and I think we should keep it that way.”

            “There is no way to pull that interpretation out of what you _just_ said. I’m calling bull.”

            Oliver gapes at him a little. Seriously, has no one else ever called him on his shit? Surely Felicity at least would have put an end to this martyr nonsense.

            Barry detects a note of testiness when Oliver responds. “Call whatever you want, but even you can’t deny that you don’t know yourself anymore, the limits or lack thereof of your powers, your role in this world and how it might change as a result of your actions. How are you supposed to figure all that out if you’re thinking about me all the time?”

            Barry opens his mouth for an angry retort (something about how conceited that sounded).

            Closes it.

            That is an uncomfortably good point. Barry _doesn’t_ know the new him and how he fits into the post-particle accelerator world of metahumans and mayhem. This really _isn’t_ a good time to throw himself into a long-distance relationship.

            His brain can comprehend that. Appreciate it even. But how is he supposed to accept it? And why is it so easy for Oliver to accept? Why is it so easy for Oliver to dismiss him when he _knows_ that Barry's suffering?

            “I do have feelings for you, Barry, feelings that go a long way down for how little we know each other,” Oliver admits in that gentle rumble Barry could listen to for days on end, “But the fact of the matter is, neither one of us is in a position to start a relationship right now. I’m sorry.”

            It’s quiet then, while Oliver broods and Barry seethes under a night sky that’s gotten a lot colder in the last few minutes. He’s not completely sure who he’s so mad at. Oliver, sure, but not only him. Fate or destiny or whatever, too.

            “I guess that’s it then. I better get back.”

            “Barry, you can still come to me, anytime you need to talk. I’ll listen, and if I can help, I will.”

            “Just don’t ever mention my squishy, gross feelings? Yeah, thanks but no thanks.”

            In the fraction of a second before the world blurs around him, Barry looks back at Oliver. His face is tilted up toward the stars, expression indescribably sad.

            Bitterness is not an emotion Barry indulges very often. It makes him feel petty, dirty even.

            As soon as he gets home, he’s going to take a long shower. Maybe several.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: [exp.] stands for [expletive deleted]
> 
> Also, I borrowed some dialog from the show. More than I feel comfortable with but.  
> I did it in a way that completely re-interpreted it. The intention was for it to be a transformation, not at all that ugly word that starts with p and ends in ism.

Even though it had been his idea for them to stay in their respective cities, this not being around while Barry gets shot at, poisoned, frozen with a Flash-specific death ray, _shot at_ , etc., week after week, is really starting to piss him off.

            And Barry [exp.] _showboat_ Allen doesn’t even try to avoid it! No, the little shit is always running _toward_ danger in Felicity’s updates and Iris’s blog posts. This is not okay. This is the opposite of okay, in that it causes Oliver extreme amounts of distress and it has to end.

            Deliberately letting an electricity vampire zap him is the last straw. Oliver is so done with Barry’s life-risking, sanity-straining shenanigans.

            It is with a great and terrible satisfaction that he plans the Team Arrow trip – oh hell, he did it again, friggin’ Roy and Felicity with their cutesy naming of things, they’re almost as bad as Barry [exp.] _adorable nerd_ Allen with his god-awful _codenames_ and – where was he? Right, the trip which he, Felicity and Dig will make to Central.

            Those Central City meta twerps better keep their hurricanes and their bombs and their _guns_ to themselves this week. The Arrow’s coming to town and he’s _pissed_.

.

_Did I not say, did I not expressly say, NO guns?_ Who is this gormless, half-witted, dung for brains _numbskull_ pointing a rifle at Barry Allen?

            Oh, he’s getting an arrow. He’s getting _two_ arrows.

.

When they meet again, the memory of their last parting crackles in the air between them like the kinetic energy Barry generates when he runs. But then Barry opens his (big, perplexingly fetching) mouth, and Oliver has to remind himself it’s a good thing they’re going to act like that night on the rooftop never happened.

            “Hey, thanks for showing up back there, but I had that.”

            Oliver is a saint. He’s a _saint_ for not explaining very loudly and very vehemently how Barry absolutely did not have that. “Uh-huh.”

            “What, I was getting ready to make my move.”

            That’s cute. That’s – that’s – Oliver laughs a little to keep from screaming. “What move? The one to the morgue?”

            He wishes he hadn’t said it the minute the words drop off his tongue. The image of Barry they conjure, lifeless and staring on a cold metal table, is the one that will marshal the host of shadowy figures that haunt the edges of his nights for a long time after.

.

“We can talk about you giving your enemies silly codenames later.”

            “You mean like over coffee with Deathstroke and The Huntress?”

            Little _shit_.

            Oliver is trying to get to a very serious point. Barry internalizing this lesson about discipline will do wonders for his self-preservation skills, which will in turn do wonders for Oliver’s ability to sleep at night. And the cheeky, darling little [exp.] is _sassing_ him.

            Patience. Unflappability. Stoicism. These are virtues. Oliver is their virtuoso.

            “Barry, when you approach a new environment, do you case every inch of it?” Oliver pauses and looks him straight in the eye. It is imperative that Barry listen, really _listen_ to this one, vital directive. “You could. You have the time. But you don't.” He’s moving now, and thinking about the arrows he’s about to put in Barry’s back, while he talks. He’s not going to enjoy that, even though the bonehead needs the lesson.

            Call it tough love.

            “You're going to run over there, you're going to come back at me, and you're going to get hit with an arrow.”

            Barry laughs. Cute. “No, I'm not.”

            Oliver laughs and it’s not cute at all, because all he feels is that grim, roiling need for Barry to be safe. He has to learn. “Yes, you are.”

            Barry runs, catches the arrow, gets hit from behind. The betrayed look he levels on Oliver hurts but not as much as imagining the Central City Citizen’s headline the day after his death.

.

Oliver’s going on about ‘training’ and ‘best intentions’ and _blah blah blah_. Barry’s not listening because all he can think about is the hammer of his own heart and the roaring churn of his blood and Oliver looking up at the stars.

            “I finally see it,” Barry cuts in, and his voice is raw and alien in his ears. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? Afraid to give in to what you want. You want _me_ , but you’re too much of a coward to admit it. Oliver Queen, rich, gorgeous, dangerous Oliver Queen, the fucking Arrow, is an emotionally stunted _coward_. Who would have guessed that?”

            For a moment, Oliver looks stunned. Then the shutters slam down. “I told Felicity you didn’t want my help.” His voice is quiet, defeated.

            Furious.

            The ugly, powerful thing wearing Barry’s face likes that. “Yeah. You’re finally right about something.”

.

Oliver’s terrified. Not for himself ( _never for myself_ ), even if it did throw him when Barry vibrated the tranquilizer out of his system. The thought he can’t suppress is, _what if he’s gone for good?_

            Can’t be. With all the other victims, the rage wore off soon after the initial exposure. But Barry’s not a normal human, and it’s been hours since he confronted Bivolo. What if it keeps growing? What if this deranged perversion is all that’s left of the radiant young prodigy that saved his life a year earlier?

            Oliver closes his eyes and reaches for the smile that lives in his heart, the one that blazes like the core of a class _O_ hypergiant. “I still believe in you, Barry.”

            Barry’s eyes flare a nauseating red. Oliver will do anything to banish the taint. If it takes his last breath.

            When Barry’s fist comes at him, Oliver uses that resolve to block it. He spins Barry around to face the approaching van and clamps his arms around him like he’s debris from a sinking ship.

            The ground seems to fall away beneath him when Barry turns to face him.

            The demon is gone.

            The arm around Barry’s shoulders as they walk down the street is as much to keep himself upright as it is to remind himself that Barry’s alright.

.

“I'm really sorry for what I said in the field and then last night in the street. I wish I could say it was all because of whatever Bivolo did to me, but I guess I had more feelings bottled up than I thought.”

            “You can always talk to me.”

            Barry’s arms cross over his chest and he looks down. Then he consciously uncrosses them and looks up, defiant. “My feelings for you haven’t changed.”

            “Neither have mine,” Oliver confesses. And stops. Can he really do this? Can he really trust Barry with the most pathetic of his secrets?

            Oliver looks at Barry and the only answer that he can find in the determined jut of his chin, in the white-hot blaze of hope in his eyes, is _yes_.

            “What you said, it’s true. I am afraid. I’m afraid you’ll see what I really am and run the other way.”

            He waits for Barry’s expression to tighten in judgment, disgust even. Instead, Barry’s whole body seems to uncoil and he smiles, soft-edged and not-actually-happy, like he knows something Oliver doesn’t.

            “You are such a drama queen!” and the little shit has the gall to _laugh_ , “Did you grow up on the set of a soap opera or something?” Barry shakes his head, not amused exactly, but not willing to be anything else right now. “I know you’ve crossed lines as the Arrow, but I refuse to believe that makes you...defective, or whatever it is you tell yourself is the reason you 'aren't good at relationships.'

            "Oliver…I’ve _seen_ you. I can’t explain it, but…I _know_ you. I’m not going to run. I mean, I am going to run, literally, just not _run_ run, like, away. Unless there's a bank robbery or a fire or a blizzard or - you know what I mean.”

            Oliver wants to give in. It’s alarming how much he does, how his heart suddenly feels like its doubled in size and is now crushing his lungs. He almost can’t make himself say his next words. But Barry’s so naïve. He can’t even imagine some of the things Oliver’s done and would still be willing to do if enough was at stake. “Come to Starling City. I’ll show you everything, won’t hold anything back, and then you can decide if I’m really the kind of…person…you want as a partner.”

            There is no hesitation in Barry’s response, only a baseless, unshakable certainty. That’s going to hurt later. “Deal.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long with this chapter!

He would have been here sooner, if it hadn’t been for the car chase in Central. Or the train wreck in St. Louis. Or that house fire just outside of Starling.

            As it is he catches the two boomerangs aimed at Oliver’s chest not a moment too soon and a chill runs through him at the thought of the scene he might have skidded into had he been just a few seconds later.

            The open-mouthed awe even the hood can’t hide only partially alleviates the chill. Enough that a competing thrill can replace it.

            Flash: 1

.

“Things work differently here. Starling City is meaner.”

            Oliver is such a pessimist. Barry will not be a bystander, which, by the way, was not the bargain he’d thought he was agreeing to back in Central.

            He makes his case earnestly, definitely not desperately, citing all that’s changed since the last time he was in this town _(impossible green, arrows, glass, metal table, terror all around and not a drop of air)_. It works.

            Oliver releases a breath. “We do this my way.”

            It’s all Barry can do to keep from throwing himself at Oliver and latching on.

.

The grouchy faces have some competition. This face, the one Oliver makes from under his hood when he walks in on all the bad guys neatly trussed up in zip ties, a lot impressed and then a little irked, _this face,_ may be Barry’s new favorite.

            Flash: 2

.

Oliver almost can't do it. But he has to.

            Dread sings, funereal, in his veins as he looses the arrow.

            This is it. This is the moment he shatters that limitless, unfounded, exquisite faith Barry's offered him from the first time their eyes met.

            He can't look back, when Barry cries out. He needs to stay in the dark. Barry has to see.

.

He'd expected...well, anything but this...betrayal. This pulsing, ravenous haze of red that turns his stomach and clouds his vision. He can't shake it, no matter how fast he runs.

            "I thought you were supposed to be a hero."

.

For what feels like hours, he sits on the stairs and he thinks.

            He could leave, like Oliver told him to.

            Right. Keep telling yourself that, Barry.

             No.

            That wasn't Oliver. That was the specter of the Hood, not the man who shrank away from the shame of his own actions even when he believed they were necessary.

            Barry _will_ make him see that.

.

"Lately I've been feeling like there's nothing left...except the Arrow."

            Barry stamps down his answering stab of annoyance. Mostly."I think you're full of crap."

            This narrative that Oliver's built around his pain...it's so _wrong_. The remorseless killer, the empty husk with no soul he thinks is inside him, just below the surface, has _never_ been him. It was only the shell he crawled into to survive. Why can't he see that? How can Barry _make_ him see it?

            If it takes every day he has left in this life he'll do it. Starting now.

            "You've convinced yourself that everything you've been through took away your humanity, but I think it's because of your humanity that you made it through. You wouldn't have survived, much less come out the other end a hero, somebody who wants to do good, if you didn't have a light inside of you."

            Oliver would have kissed him then, if Felicity hadn’t walked in. Barry's sure. But suddenly Oliver can't meet his eyes.

            Barry looks at her, funneling the guilt he feels from the deepest part of him into silent apology.

            The carefully blank look she offers him in return is undeniably sad but not at all surprised.

            A part of him grieves for the light that he took away from her. But in this, he will be selfish. There is no other choice left to him, not now.

            That she would do the same is no comfort.

.

"Why are you hesitating?"

            Barry's face flashes behind his eyes. Against all odds, against all reason, Barry still believes in him. It's time, beyond time, to give him reason.

.

Barry skids to a halt just in time to catch Oliver's defiant "It means I have some humanity left."

            From the feel of it, a family of tornadoes has taken up residence somewhere behind his navel.

.

There's something new in the Cave - sorry, the Foundry.

            Trying to suppress the wanton glee bubbling in his chest (and failing, if Oliver's fond amusement is anything to go by), Barry all but squeaks, "This is for me?"

            "For the next time you're in town."

            Barry grins wide even as his breaths lodge in his throat.

.

"Oliver and I have some unfinished business to take care of first."

            "You guys aren't going to punch each other, right?"

            Barry meets his eyes and a thrill equal parts dire elation and delighted terror runs through him. Nope, no punching.

            (Right?)

.

He's nervous. He likes to think he's doing a pretty good job of covering it up with the artificially light banter. He hopes Oliver's jabs regarding who would win in a hypothetical fight are coming from a similar place. As unlikely as that is. Oliver's been with so many women (people? and dear god, isn't that it's own can of worms, a very unhelpful can of worms with so many wriggling, writhing implications as far as _experiences_ that he might have had and might like to repeat, like, say, _right now,_ and - that warehouse over there appears to be the appropriate level of inconspicuous for an amicable duel where he proves, once and for all, that even though Oliver's extremely capable, nothing beats superspeed - _nothing,_ although Oliver's eyes when they're all _clear_ and _still_ and _it chose you-you can be better-you can inspire people-in a flash_ come close, and you know what, actually, they might just be Barry's weakness, the one thing that can stop him in his tracks, every time, which would definitely shift the advantage in Oliver's favor, enough that he could get close enough to grab an arm, pull him close, press him up against a convenient wall, and - _brain!_  Stop that!)

            Sometimes it's hard to decide whether being able to think faster than anyone else on the planet is a gift or a really, really mortifying curse.

            They're getting closer to downtown and its mammoth skyscrapers. As Barry starts to recognize some of the street signs, his heart skitters fretfully and Oliver goes quiet. He's leading him back to their rooftop.

            They come to the right building. Oliver nocks one of those fancy arrows with a cable attached to it. Barry streaks up the side.

            Under those same pinprick stars, Oliver waits, a man condemned by the court of his own morals with only one hope for salvation.

            Barry locks eyes with him for a long moment, weighing each of the million things he has to say to Oliver. It turns out there are really only two that matter right now.

            "Oliver...you were wrong. When you told me I could inspire people, you said you couldn't. But you were wrong - you can inspire. Not as the Arrow, that guy's a douche."

            Oliver laughs, higher and less measured than usual.

            "But as Oliver Queen."

            Robbed of speech, Oliver can only swallow once. Twice.

            Finally, "You don't know what that means to me, Barry, coming from you."

            Barry takes a deep breath, trying to soothe the fine tremors racing up and down his body. He wants to respond to that. Boy, does he, and not with anything like his words. But he needs to say the second thing. Which, really, is a response of a kind.

            "You said you would show me everything and, you, Oliver Queen, are a cheat. You only showed me the parts you thought would scare me off. Well, I'm not scared and I've made my decision. I want you. All of you, in every way." He holds out a hand, his eyes a pair of beggars. "Partners?"

            Oliver stares, lips parted, before gripping his hand. He jerks once at the _jolt,_ but he doesn't let go. Instead he uses it as leverage to pull Barry against his chest, his free hand alighting at the top of Barry's hip. Barry's heart stutters like a finicky engine, dies, and then roars back to life and he's pretty sure that if he were connected to an EKG monitor there'd be alarms blaring their outrage.

            Oliver moves his hand from Barry's to lie flat over his heart. Barry trembles.

            No, he _vibrates_.

            A question overtakes the marvel on Oliver's face and his eyes dart down and up in the space of a breath. _Are you alright? Is this normal for you?_

            Barry laughs, impossibly giddy. _Maybe? Probably? I don't know?_

            Oliver's gaze searches his face before locking on his lips. _Can I kiss you now?_

             _What do you think I've been waiting for all day?!_

            Barry's smiling, but Oliver's expression is an altogether more purposeful one. A thousand feet above the ground, their lips meet.

            They're not crushing and they're not falling. They're _flying_.

.

end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, huge thank you from the bottom of my heart to each and every one of you who has read this story, left kudos and/or commented. I love you all so much and I'm so grateful to you for your time and your kind thoughts! *big, virtual bear hugs*
> 
> Now, I have a few questions, if anyone feels inclined to answer. No obligation whatsoever! Just by clicking on the title and reading to the end, you've all done so much for me already! But, if you would like to leave me a few closing thoughts regarding the following, I would appreciate it very much. 
> 
> What was your favorite chapter? Is there a particular reason you liked that chapter?  
> Which chapter did you feel was the weakest?  
> Was the progression of emotions for Barry and Oliver believable? Was it more believable for one of them than for the other? (In other words, at any point did their feelings seem to develop too fast or not fast enough?)
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for your support! I love you all <3


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